18 


IRLF 


SB    lib    SDfl 


1 


OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY 


A   Pagan   Anthology 


Composed  of 

POEMS 

By 
CONTRIBUTORS 

TO    THE 

PAGAN 

MAGAZINE 


Pagan   Publishing   Co.  New  York  City 


NOTE 

The    Poems    in   this    volume    are    mainly    of    the 

authors'  own  choosing;  some  of  them  have 

appeared  in  past  issues  of  the  Pagan 


M609461 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


CONTENTS 


EGMONT  HEGEL  ARENS 

Blind 

Twenty  Blocks 
Fear  and  Love 
Remembrance 

M. ALEXANDER 
Sheerba  Smoke 

MAXWELL  BODENHEIM 

Soldiers 
The  Walk 
Intrusion 
To  a  Man 

PAULINE  CAHN 
Rest 

HART  CRANE 

October-November 
Fear 

ROUTLEDGE  CURRY 
An  Orchid 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


MARY  CAROLYN  DAVIES 

Ambition 
"Also  " 


PAUL  ELDRIDGE 

When  I  am  Dead 
The  Moon  and  The  Ocean 
You  Were  So  Pure 
The  Forgetful  Owls 

MAX  ENDICOFF 

Lament  Drolatique 

To  Whom? 

At  Twilight 

The  Young  Officer 

Tricked 

ERNESTINE  KARA 
Modern  Art 

JOSEPH  U.  HARRIS 

The  Play 

Crossing  a  Canal-Lock 

The  Street 

Moths 

Reincarnate 

ELIZABETH  JAEGER 
Croak 

LESLIE  NELSON  JENNINGS 
Menage 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


ALICE  LOUISE  JONES 
Baccante 

JOSEPH  KLING 

Dedication 

Portraits 

Extase 

Faculty-Parade 

Farewell 

Lux  in  Tenebris 

Study  in  Reversion 

GEORGES  LEWYS 
Burgundy 

MARJORIE  MUIR 
A  New  England  Town — At  Noon 

EDWARD  NAGLE 
The  Orange  Room 

RUTH  CLAY  PRICE 

Fields 

Anticipation 

Strophe 

Eyes 

Dearest 

Tramplers 

Impressions 

HELENE  THURSTON 

Sacrifice 

Fear 

Moonrise 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


WINIFRED  WALDRON 

Three  Wash-Drawings 
The  Garbage  Man 
"Know  Thyself. 
Hokku 

ZELLA  MURIEL  WRIGHT 

Delice 

May  Moods 

A  Song 

Songs  of  Creation 


TRANSLATIONS 

By  EDNA  W.  UNDERWOOD 

From  the  French  of 
Gabriel  Soulages 

The  Painted  Vase 
Idleness. 

By  JOSEPH  RUNG 

From  the  French  of 
Fernand  Gregh 

The  Stilled  Voice 

From  the  French  of 
(Author's  name  lost) 

Confession 

From  the  Jewish  of 
Moishe  Nadir 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  MoisTie  Nadir 
Lines  on  Moishe  Nadir  Redivivus 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


From  the  Jewish  of 
Monnie  Laib 

Monody 
Winter  Rain 

From  the  Jewish  of 
Ovro'om  Raisin 

Fragment 

From  a  Jewish  Folk  Song 
Motif 


6  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 

EGMONT  HEGEL  ARENS 

/.      Blind 

II.  Twenty  Blocks 

III.  Fear  and  Love 

IV.  Remembrance 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


BLIND 


Seeking  God 

I  went  to  where  men  worship  His  name: 

A  lofty  temple. 

"Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread !" 

They  whined — 

Fervently. 

The  sleek  priest  was  thinking  of  his  dinner  with 

wine  after  the  sermon, 
And  the  deacon  was  gloating  over  his  neighbor's 

wickedness, 
And  the  bald-headed  man  up  in  front  was  thinking 

of  a  pair  of  legs  that  belonged  to  a  chorus  girl, 
And  the  pretty  woman  with  the  baby  eyes  was 

thinking  of  nothing  at  all,  singing  hymns  only 

with  her  mouth, 
And  the  ugly  old  lady  with  the  hair-lip  was  hating 

the  beauty  of  her  neighbor. 

God  didn't  seem  anywhere  in  evidence, 

And  I  started  away 

Thinking  to  find  Him  in  his  old  haunts 

Down  by  the  river 

Where  the  whip-poor-will  in  the  willow-tree 

Sings : 

"Love-us-Lord !    Love-us-Lord !" 

But  you  can't  keep  God  out 

Even  from  churches.  .  .  . 

Up  in  the  choir  was  a  blind  girl 

Singing: 

"Tho  dark  my  way 

Lead  Thou  me  on!" 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


And  where  these  were  blind 
I  knew  that  she  could  see 
The  green  pastures 
And  still  waters. 


TWENTY  BLOCKS 

The  daughters  of  the  rich 

Go  shopping  on  Thirty-fourth  street : 

They  are  sweet,  round  and  succulent, 

Nourished,  firm-fleshed, 

Dainty  and  expensive  morsels 

To  glut  desire 

And  deaden  the  spirit. 

Down  on  Fourteenth  street 

There  is  a  waitress  in  a  restaurant, — 

Fresh-skinned  and  young-limbed, — 

With  a  gesture  that  speaks  of  nodding  hill-flow'rs 

in  summer. 

For  fifteen  cents  I  order  ham  and  eggs : 
But  she  will  bring  me  a  vivifying  draught 
For  my  soul's  quickening.   .   .   . 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  9 


FEAR  AND  LOVE 

Fearing  my  father, 

I  sat  still  at  table 

When  the  boys  came  up  the  alley 

Calling : 

"Come  out!     Come  out!" 

And  I  hated  the  discipline 

Which  held  me  there 

Foolishly. 

Loving  my  mate, 

I  sat  still  at  home 

When  Life  came  up  the  alley 

Shouting : 

"Come  out !    Come  out !" 

And  I  hated  the  tenderness 

Which  held  me  there 

Perhaps  wisely. 


REMEMBRANCE 

It  is  holiday  time  in  the  woods, 

And  all  the  trees  are  to  have  new  dresses 

To  welcome  the  Spring: 

But  the  sombre  pine, 
In  his  old  black  clothes, 
Sighs  for  the  kiss 
And  the  clinging  love 
Of  winter's  snow. 


io  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


M.  ALEXANDER 

/.       Sheerba  Smoke 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  n 

SHEERBA  SMOKE 

I. 

On  a  gaudy  rug, 

To  the  accompaniment 

Of  crotali  and  clarinet, 

Half-naked 

Little  brown-skinned  ghawazi, 

Dance 

The  dance  of  the  wasp. 

II. 

An  old  Jewess, 
With  ravaged  features 
And  massive  legs, 
Beckons  to  passing  men. 
Through  the  lattice  windows 
Pretty  Levantine  girls 
Are  seen 
Lounging  about. 

III. 

Spinning  round  and  round, 
Moaning  and  howling 
To  the  shriek  and  rumble 
Of  barbaric  music, 
Fiendish  and  terrible — 
Dervishes  dance. 

IV. 

Boats  on  the  Nile.   .   .   . 

At  sunset  they  resemble 

Butterflies  a-tremble  on  open  flowers; 

At  night, 

Sheeted  phantoms 

In  the  heart  of  a  sapphire. 


12  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


MAXWELL  BODENHEIM 

/.      Soldiers 

II.  The  Walk 

III.  Intrusion 

IV.  To  a  Man 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  13 


SOLDIERS 

They  sprawl  in  the  coffee-colored  mud 

As  though  they  were  its  lovers,  slowly  kissing  it, 

But  one  long  crescent  of  them,  dipped  in  moonlight, 

Like  gray  sparrows  on  whom  silver  bubbles  end 
lessly  sputter, 

Lies  on  the  stubble  of  a  little  hill. 

The  smile  of  one  face  is  like  a  fierce  mermaid 

Floating  dead  in  a  little  pale  brown  pond. 

The  lips  of  one  are  twisted 

To  a  hieroglyphic  of  silence 

Bearing  strands  of  froth  woven  by  little  death- 
spiders. 

The  face  of  another  is  like  a  shining  frog. 

Another  face  is  met  by  a  question 

That  digs  into  it  like  sudden  claws. 

Beside  it  is  a  face  like  a  mirror 

In  which  a  stiffened  child  dangles  from  a  string.  .  .  . 

Dead  soldiers,  in  a  moon-dipped  crescent, 

Whose  faces  form  a  gravely  mocking  sentence. 


THE  WALK 

A  shadow-leaf  parts  between  fingers ; 

Its  pieces  swing  upward  and  wind 

About  the  shadowy,  blowing,  blue  hair  of  the  day, 

But  the  day  shakes  them  loose,  and  they  shiver  down 

Like   bits   of   fire   that   have   dreamed   themselves 

cold   .... 

So  our  friendship,  as  we  walk  along, 
Slipped  from  us,  to  form  a  far-off,  gossamer  beauty, 
And  came  back  to  us,  like  a  dream  that  wants  to 

sleep. 


14  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


INTRUSION 

The  lilies  sag  with  rain-drops.  .   .   . 

Their  petals  hold  fire  that  does  not  break  out, 

(As  though  it  slept  between  vapor-silk 

It  could  not  burn) 

And  a  young  breeze  stumbles  upon  the  lilies 

And  strokes  them  with  his  hands  .... 

The  lilies  and  the  young  breeze  are  not  unlike 

Your  silence  and  the  mist  of  soft  words  breaking  it.. 


TO  A  MAN 

Like  sea-foam  dancing  in  the  upward  swing 

Of  whirling  waves  that  heave  against  each  other 

Your  silken  thoughts  tremble  upward 

Upon  the  tumbling  passion  of  your  life, 

And  die. 

But  when  you  bent,  inviting  a  flower 

To  grace  a  corner  of  your  mind, 

The  sea-foam  stayed,  and  the  waves  disappeared 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  15 


PAULINE  CAHN     v 
/.      Rest 


16  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


REST 

I  am  so  tired — so  tired. 
I  see  too  many  people, 
Read  too  many  books. 
Do  too  many  things. 

I  hate  the  theaters, 

I  hate  my  work, 

I  want  you, — only  you.   .   .  . 

Come  to  me  between  the  cool  sheets 

And  let  me  burrow  my  head  in  your  shoulder. 

Kiss  my  two  eyes.   .   .   . 

The  moon  is  making  peaceful  patches  on  the  yellow 

coverlet; 
The  hoof-beats  of  my  thoughts  are  growing  faint. 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  17 


HART  CRANE 


/.  October-November 
II.  Fear 


i8  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


OCTOBER-NOVEMBER. 

Indian-summer-sun 

With  crimson  feathers  whips  away  the  mists, — 

Dives  through  the  filter  of  trellises 

And  gilds  the  silver  on  the  blotched  arbor-seats. 

Now  gold  and  purple  scintillate 

On  trees  that  seem  dancing 

In  delirium; 

Then  the  moon 

In  a  mad  orange  flare 

Floods  the  grape-hung  night. 


FEAR. 

The  host,  he  says  that  all  is  well, 

And  the  fire-wood  glow  is  bright; 

The  food  has  a  warm  and  tempting  smell, — 

But  on  the  window  licks  the  night. 

Pile  on  the  logs.  .  .  .  Give  me  your  hands, 
Friends !    No, — it  is  not  fright.  .  .  . 
But  hold  me  .  .  .  somewhere  I  heard  demands. 
And  on  the  window  licks  the  night. 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  19 


ROUTLEDGE  CURRY 

/.       An  Orchid 


20  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


AN  ORCHID. 

The  old  mahogany  fireplace 

Had  an  ample  cloth  of  dark  green  velvet 

Over  its  mantlepiece. 

On  it 

I  placed  a  slender  silver  vase, 
And  filled  it  with  a  solitary  orchid 
Of  rare  beauty. 

The  peacock  flower 

Possessed  a  soft  shy  face, 

And  it  rolled  quaint  scarlet  kisses 

To  me 

Down  curious  paths  of  lavender  and  gold, 

Trailing  its  eager,  graceful  petals 

To  a  point. 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


21 


MARY  CAROLINE  DAVIES 
/.  Ambition 
II.  "Also" 


22  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


AMBITION 

The  little  fire 

On  the  hearth 

Dreaming  of  forests 

Where  it  will 

One  day 

Race  and  sing, — 

And  we  before  it 
Dreaming. 


"ALSO." 

Could  that  man  ever  have  seen  the  stars, 

That  sacred  historian  who  added, 

As  a  careless  afterthought, 

Scrawling   it   down,    perhaps,    in   the   margin   for 

insertion, 
"He  made  the  stars  also—"? 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  23 


PAUL  ELDRIDGE 

/.  When  I  am  Dead 
II.  The  Moon  and  the  Ocean 

III.  You  Were  so  Pure 

IV.  The  Forgetful  Owls 


24  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


WHEN  I  AM  DEAD 

I'll  have  no  compromise, 

No  bargain-driving 

With  the  gods. 

And  so, 

When  I  am  dead, 

Let  them  not  offer  me 

With  oriental  hospitality 

Their  Paradise. 

Let  not  their  angels 

In  cynical  humility 

Wash  my  feet  with  myrrh, 

Anoint  my  head 

With  perfumed  oils, 

And  flap  their  wings 

Like  silver  castanets 

In  mocking  merriment. 

I'll  have  no  dealings 

With  the  gods — 

I've  known  them  too  long, 

And  learned  the  cunning  fashion 

Of  their  arts. 

And  so, 

When  I  am  dead, 

Let  vulgar  Earth 

Absorb  me  with  her  kiss, 

And  clasp  me  tightly 

With  her  rough  unclean  arms 

Against  her  breast. 

And  when  she  wearies 

Of  my  flesh  and  bones, 

Let  her  crush  me  in  her  palms, 

And  render  me 

A  blade  of  grass, 

To  dance  a  summer's  day 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  25 


And  throw  kisses 

To  the  stars. 

Alas,  the  gods  are  greedy, 

And  seek  their  profit, — 

They'll  never  give  me  peace, 

When  I  am  dead — 

They'll  offer  me 

Most  graciously, 

Their  Paradise.    .    .    ., 


26  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


THE  MOON  AND  THE  OCEAN 


(To  Sylvia) 

The  Moon, 

The  old  roue, 

Watches  with  desire 

The  Earth  below. 

The  Ocean, 

Prudish  maid, 

Hides  her  breasts, 

Feverishly, — 

But  the  winds,  laughing, 

Blow  off  incessantly 

Her  flimsy  draperies. 

The  Moon, 

A  golden  hoop, 

Rolls  unsteadily 

Upon  the  ragged  edges 

Of  the  shivering  clouds. 

The  Ocean, 

Mischievous  girl, 

Runs  after — 

Her  hands  raised  up 

To  catch  it, 

And  shouts  and  laughs 

In  utter  merriment. 

The  Moon 

The  painted  mountebank 

Of  the  infinite  circus, 

Grins  and  bows 

To  his  celestial  audience. 

The  Ocean, 
A  clumsy  bear 
Sways  and  dances 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  27 


To  the  bagpipes 
Of  the  merry  winds. 
The  Moon, 
The  hoary  recluse, 
Gazes  calmly 
Across  eternity, 
And  meditates 
On  Death. 

The  Ocean, 

The  Earth's  demagogue, 

Silver-tongued, 

Harangues  the  winds, 

Persuading  them 

To  blow  across  the  Moon 

And  blind  him. 


28  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


YOU  WERE  SO  PURE 


You  were  so  pure, 

So  exquisite, 

I  feared  to  touch 

Your  little  hand; 

I  feared  to  bend  upon  my  knee, 

And  swear  eternal  passion. 

You  were  so  tender, 

So  like  the  bud 

Of  a  fragile  rose, 

I  dared  not  whisper, 

"I  love  you," 

That  for  fear,  like  a  coarse  wind, 

I  might  tear 

The  delicate  petals    .... 

And  so  I  walked  away, 
And  wept  my  sorrow 
Into  my  hands. 

And  now  you're  married 

You  gave  a  dowry, 

And  bargained  cleverly 

To  be  a  wife. 

I  saw  you  hang  upon  his  arm, 

And  look  with  amorous  desire 

Into  his  eyes, 

While  he  was  yawning. 

And  so,  I  walked  away, 
And  laughed  my  sorrow 
Into  my  hands. 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  29 


THE  FORGETFUL  OWLS 

Nightly, 

Silence  summons  to  herself 

The  Owls  of  the  world, 

And  whispers  in  their  feathered  ears 

The  Truth  of  Things, 

Which  they  promise 

To  repeat  to  Man 

When  he  wakes. 

But  the  Sun, 

The  hater  of  Truth, 

Dazzles  their  round  eyes, 

And  they  fall  asleep, 

Andr  dream — 

And  forget.  .  . 

And  Man  seeks — 
Seeks  in  vain 
What  only  Silence 
And  the  Owls  know.  .  . 


30  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


MAX  ENDICOFF 

I.  Lament  Drolatique 
II.  To  Whom 

III.  At  Twilight 

IV.  The  Young  Officer 
V.  Tricked 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  31 


LAMENT  DROLATIQUE 


Death  overtook  her 

Like  a  stealthy  storm-cloud 

Pouncing  upon  a  scintillating  sunbeam 

And  engulfing  it  within  a  stifling  darkness. 

It  was  but  yesterday 

That  she  lay  in  my  arms.  .  .  . 

Her  warm,  moist  lips  were  seeking  mine, 

Her  soft  round  arms, 

Like  a  noose  of  quivering  satin, 

Were  twined  about  my  neck, 

And  her  dark,  brooding  eyes 

Flooded  the  bleak  and  barren  chambers  of  my  heart 

With  the  joyous  light  of  love. 

This  thing  .... 

This  thing,  lying  so  frigid  and  inert 

Upon  the  bare,  unswept  floor, 

And  draped  in  a  shroud  of  melancholy  black, 

Once  lived  and  loved. 

Now,  it  means  no  more  to  me 

Than  that  insignificant  little  fly 

That  crawls  so  unconcernedly 

Upon  the  cold  blanched  forehead. 

And  the  mourners, 

With  their  raucous  wails  and  forced  tears, 

Are  splendid  buffoons  in  a  mock  tragedy. 

But  why — why 

Are  the  chambers  of  my  heart 

More  bleak  and  barren 

Than  ever.  . 


32  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


TO  WHOM? 

(Our  losses  were  trivial,  728  killed  and  4,354 
wounded. — European  News  Item.) 

Trivial ? 

To  whom?    TO  WHOM? 


Not  to  the  dead, 

Whose  battered  bodies 

Are  like  the  shapeless  fragments  of  an  image 

Carelessly  crushed  by  the  wanton  hand 

Of  a  titanic  malevolence. 

In  them,  the  lust  of  life 

Flamed  as  sharp  and  clear 

As  in  the  wheezing  breasts  of  the  hounds 

Who  foam  and  whine 

For  the  blood 

They  do  not  have  to  give. 

Trivial ? 

To  whom?    TO  WHOM? 

Not  to  the  bereaved  at  home, 

The  tender  women 

Who  make  gods  of  the  men  they  love — 

Their  tear-scorched  prayers 

Are  of  passionate  pity  for  the  voiceless  dead 

And  of  baffled  hatred  for  the  boastful  living. 

Trivial ? 

To  whom?    TO  WHOM? 

Not  to  the  ferocious  enemy, 

For  they  too  have  their  dead — 

The  uncounted  horde  of  startled  beings, 

That  black  treachery, 

With  artful  and  cunning  words, 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  33 


Had  lured  from  the  free  and  turbulent  spaces  of  life 

To  the  bleak,  eternal  confines 

Of  a  hurried  and  undesired  grave. 

Trivial ? 

To  whom?    TO  WHOM? 


AT  TWILIGHT 

A  gentle  peaceful  gray 

Steals  over  the  sky 

And  rebukes  the  sun  for  his  flamboyant  gaiety 

Until  his  head  sinks  beneath  the  western  rim — 

A  street  lamp  opens  wide  its  yellow  eye — 

The  staccato  stutter  of  traffic  subsides 

And  is  lost 

In  the  uncanny  silence 

(As  of  a  living  thing  suddenly  touched  by  death) 

That  hangs  over  the  earth  for  one  brief  moment. 

It  is  that  moment 

When  mankind  is  wont 

To  lower  its  weary  arms, 

Lift  its  drooping  shoulders, 

And  listen  devoutly 

To  the  clangorous  call  of  a  church 

Or  to  the  questioning  murmurs  of  its  soul. 

But  this  long  long  line  of  men, 

With  snarling  bayonets  aimed  straight  at  the  sky, 

Never  heed  the  voice  of  either. 

Stolidly 

They  march,  march,  march — 

As  if  they  were  strange  beings 

Coming  from  some  alien  land 

That  knows  of  neither  church  nor  soul. 


34  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


THE  YOUNG  OFFICER 

A  supple  speckless  figure  in  costly  habilements 

With  cloth-carved  calves, 
Severe,  unbending,  breadth  of  shoulder, 
And  the  flippant  insouciance 
Of  a  service-cap 

Tipped  with  diligent  carelessness 
To  one  side  of  the  head  .... 
To  this  young  untried  recruit 
The  War 

Must  be  a  sartorial  adventure, 
A  world- wide  exhibition  of  the  tailor's  art. 


TRICKED 

We  walked  along  the  Avenue  arm  in  arm — 

And  I, 

Who  hoarded  the  beauty  wrenched  from  life, 

(Giving  nought  in  return  but  sneers  of  mockery), 

I,  in  a  moment  of  wanton  recklessness, 

Opened  wide  the  doors  of  this  prized  store-house 

Filled  with  memories 

That  are  like  priceless  jewels 

Torn   from  the  earth  with  crushed  and   bleeding 

fingers. 

She  smiled  gently,  pressed  my  arm  in  sympathy, 
And  stopped  before  a  garish  shop-window 
To  admire  a  hat. 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  35 


ERNESTINE  HARA 

/.       Modern  Art 


36  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


MODERN  ART 

Arms  awry 

Legs  astride    .    .    . 

This  jumbled  mass 

Of  humans 

Sprawling 

On  the  green. 

What  demons 
Set  them 
^Rolling, 
Stumbling, 
Falling  crazily 
Over  each  other 
Like  a  stupid  mess 
Of  kittens 
Rolling  downhill 
To  a  picnic?   .   .   .   . 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  37 


JOSEPH  U.  HARRIS : 


I.  The  Play 

II.  Crossing  a  Canal-Lock 

III.  The  Street 

IV.  Moths 

V  Reincarnate 


38  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


THE  PLAY, 

I  watched  you  curve  your  arm  over  the  back  of 

your  companion's  chair, 
Sitting  behind  you  in  the  crowded  theatre, 
Watched  him,  as  the  dull  performance  progressed, 
Lean  back  until  his  head  rested  upon  your  arm. 

I  crushed  my  program  in  my  hand  until  it  was  a 

shapeless  mass 
Then  dropped  it  on  the  floor  listlessly. 

The  performance  went  on.  I  do  not  know  whether 
it  was  good  or  bad. 

I  only  know  that  you  sat  with  your  arm  over  the 
back  of  the  seat  in  front  of  me,  and  that  your 
friend's  head  rested  upon  it  lightly. 

As  I  walked  rapidly  homeward  my  eyes  were  full 

of  tears. 
But  when  they  asked  me  about  the  play,  I  could  not 

remember. 


CROSSING  A  CANAL  -  LOCK. 

From  this  old  canal-lock 

The  black  water  creeps  out  on  either  side. 

There  is  not  a  glimmer  of  light  in  it;  it  might  be  the 
Styx— 

The  night  hangs  over  it  like  crepe  upon  a  door, 

Warning  away  every  happy  face,  every  gay  footstep. 

High  up  the  cliff  gleam  the  lights  of  the  dance-pa 
vilion  

The  faint  echo  of  violins a  stray  bit  of  laugh 
ter  

Now  a  single  thread  of  light  touches  the  water  like  a 
ray  of  moonshine  wandering  over  a  corpse. 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  39 


TO  A  PRIEST 

I  have  listened  to  your  profession  of  faith. 

I  have  sat  with  your  sorrowful  flock  and  listened  to 
your  expression  of  confident  trust, 

Your  splendid  reliance  upon  the  blessed  providence 
of  God,  the  Father, 

Who  "for  a  purpose"  .  .  .  has  .  .  .  "in  His  inscrut 
able  wisdom"  .  .  .  "permitted" — every  un 
godly  thing: 

Who  "has  seen  fit"  ...  to  meddle  with  the  incon 
sequential  maneuverings  of  all  the  ecclesiastics ; 

Who  has  been  a  veritable  village-gossip,  with  a 
finger  in  every  man's  pie ; 

Who  directs  battles.  .  .  . 

And  I  say  to  you: 

O  little  meddler ! 

Come  down  from  your  little  pulpit  and  take  off  your 

little  vestments ; 
And  leave  your  congregation  to  the  holy  ministry 

of  silence ! 
Who  are  you  to  proclaim    the    purposes    of    the 

Infinite ! 
What  manner  of  god  is  this  that  you  have  made  in 

your  own  image? 


40  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


THE  STREET 


Who  are  you,  walking  the  streets  with  me  tonight? 
Are  you  following  me,  or  am  I  following  you?    Or 

is  each  of  us  afraid  of  losing  the  other? 
The  street  divides  us. 

From  time  to  time  you  glance  furtively  across  at  me. 
Twice   now   I   have  caught  you,    and   there   were 

other  times  that  I  did  not  know. 
From  time  to  time  my  eyes  follow  you  also.    Maybe 

you  have  caught  me  too. 
Why  do  you  walk  so  rapidly,  as  though  you  were 

afraid  to  stop? 

Listen !    I  too  am  afraid  to  stop.    I  have  been  walk 
ing  through  life  this  way.    I  do  not  know  what 

would  happen  if  I  did  not  keep  on. 
I  wonder  if  you  have  always  walked  like  this,  with 

quick,  rapid  strides,  afraid  to  look  behind  you, 

afraid  to  stop,  even  for  an  instant. 
Couldn't  we — couldn't  we  stop,  just  for  once? 
I  want  to  talk  to  you.    I  know  that  you  could  tell 

me  wonderful  things. 
And  perhaps  you  would  think  the  things  I  should 

tell  you  were  wonderful. 
Let  us  stop,  just  this  once.    We  are  both  so  tired  of 

walking. 
Let  us  stop — now.    See?    I  am  going  more  slowly. 

It  is  foolish  to  walk  so  fast. 
Now — now  you  are  going  to  stop.     We  shall  tell 

each  other  wonderful  things. 
It  is  over — it  is  over,  this  endless  walking.    We  are 

stopping,  we  are  stopping.   .  .  . 

But  you  haven't  stopped !    Where  are  you  ?    What 

has  happened?    I  cannot  see  you  any  longer. 
O  God  !  I  had  forgotten — !  The  street  is  between  us. 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  41 


MOTHS 

We  flit  about, 

Dart  in  and  out, 

Like  moths  around  a  flame. 

We  singe  our  wings  with  whisperings 

of  cowardice  and  shame; 
The  hungry  fire  of  our  desire 
Forever  burns  the  same. 
By  passion  spurred, 
Hopes  quickly  stirred, 
We  flutter  here  and  there. 
On  wings  of  fear  we  hover  near 
The  lamps'  enticing  glare, 
Until  the  light  is  quenched  in  night, 
Our  longing  in  despair. 
Through  endless  days, 
In  darkened  ways, 
We  crawl  with  drooping  wings. 
Only  at  night  we  take  delight 
In  airy  wanderings ; 
And  then  we  seem  to  only  dream 
A  thousand  futile  things. 
So  here  and  there, 
And  everywhere, 
Our  weary  wings  we  ply. 
The  lights  that  lure  are  never  sure, 
They  flare,  burn  now,  and  die. 
Our  only  song  is  one  of  wrong, 
And  our  only  speech  a  sigh. 


42  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


REINCARNATE 

Somewhere  my  spirit,  in  the  long  ago,     . 

Communed  with  yours,  or  in  some  ancient  land 
I  walked  and  talked  with  you.   I  have  clasped 
your  hand 

Before,  somewhere,  and  in  your  eyes  I  know 

That  I  have  sometimes  seen  an  answering  glow 
Of  hope,  and  longing.    (Do  you  understand?) 
It  seems  as  if  in  Time's  eternal  sand 

Bright  memory-grains  illumined  the  dull  flow 

Of  dead  hours  that  make  up  futurity ; 

And  out  of  dreams  that  I  have  dreamed  there  rise 
Visions  of  you  which  quell  my  discontent. 

Almost  I  think  rare  moments  we  have  spent 
Together  thrill  me  with  a  sweet  surprise 
As  they  troop  back  into  my  memory. 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  43 


ELIZABETH  JAEGER 
/.       Croak 


44  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 

CROAK 

When  it  darkens  and  rains 
I  am  not  anything  human : 
I  am  a  frog. 

I  shelter  myself  under  moss-covered  stones, 
Blink  out  at  people, 
Who  passing  leave  such  queer  marks, 
And  say :  "Damn  the  water 
Damn  the  mud 

Damn  everything." 
With  relish  I  croak  in  my  nook. 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  45 


LESLIE  NELSON  JENNINGS 
/.       Menage 


46  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


MENAGE 

"Blinds  down!"  they  cry, 

Mouthing  me  ancient  shibboleths. 

They  say:    If  one  lived  alone 

It  would  be  different. 

But  I  cannot  understand; 

I  will  not  hide  my  thoughts. 

Let  them  be  lithe  girls, 

Combing  their  hair 

Perpetually ; 

Let  them  be  happy  and  idle 

In  their  clear  white  muslin  shifts. 

There  they  stand 

For  all  the  world  to  see, 

Graciously  domestic. 

Oh  yes, 

I  know  how  this  revolts  them, — 

My  neighbors  who  dwell  in  splendid, 

empty  houses ; 
Because  they  are  outraged, 
Shall  I  also  live  in  loneliness? 

Let  them  say  that  I  keep  mistresses, 

That  I  am  shameless. 

Nevertheless, 

My  windows  shall  remain 

Open  to  the  sky. 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  47 


ALICE  LOUISE  JONES 
/.       Baccante 


48  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


BACCANTE 

I  bathe  in  the  lush  of  the  moon; 

Of   her  shadows   I   weave 

From  my  breast  to  my  knees  a  whole  garment 

To  tantalize  Pan! 

My  mouth  has  the  red  of  the  adder 

With  sharp  teeth  that  sting 

As  they  close  on  the  mouth  of  another. 

My  breasts  are  like  great  pointed  bubbles 

Which  the  hands 

Of  some  wood-god  have  fashioned. 

I  wait  for  the  beat  of  Pan's  hoofs 

As  he  leaps 

Pushing  great  hairy   fingers  to   crumble  the   shoots 

Of  the  vines  and  bushes  that  hide  me: — 

Then 

Spring  I  erect 

Tossing  glad   swaying  hands   and  bright   shoulders, 

A  moment, 

And  then,  — 

Fleet  of  foot,  with  wild  laughter 

I  whirl  and  am  gone. 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  49 


JOSEPH  KLING 


/.  Dedication 
II.  Portraits 

III.  Extase 

IV.  Faculty-Parade 
V.  Farewell 

VI.  Lux  in  Tenebris 

VII.  Study  in  Reversion 


50  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


DEDICATION 

Madre  dolorosa 
O  madre  mia! 

The  heavy  hand  of  Sorrow 
Has  bowed  your  head, 
And  the  blighting  breath  of  Care 
Has  withered  your  cheek; 

Yet  your  soul's  sweet  light 
Shines  through  its  mist  of  tears 
Like  the  beatific  smile  of  Her 
They  call  the  Queen  of  Heaven, 

O  madre  dolorosa, 
Madre  dolorosa  mia! 


PORTRAITS 


I. 


When  my  friend  Don  Juan 
Has  left  his  last  love 
He  becomes  gravely  philosophi 
Wonders  why  a  man 
Cannot  help  making  love 
To  every  pretty  woman 

That  crosses  his  path 

Berates  himself  harshly 

For  his  wicked  misdeeds, 

Praises  the  virtues 

Of  honest  married  folk, 

A  happy  home,  loving  wife, — 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  51 


But  reminds  himself  suddenly 

Of  a  "pressing  engagement" ; 

Adjusts  his  cravat, 

Smiles, 

And  departs 

II, 

Sweet  half-conscous  hypocrite, 
Golden-haired,  apple-cheeked, 
Plaything  of  flattery, 
Woman  of  women; 
Grudgingly  envious, 
Hintingly  slanderous, 
Flirtingly  philanderous ; 
To  be  young, 
To  be  tempting, 
To  be  tempting 
Without  yielding, — 
The  business  of  life 


EXTASE 

(A  ma  princesse  lointaine) 

Your  beauty  is  a  golden  tide 

Half-mist,  half-light 

On  which  my  heart  is  afloat 

No  cup  in  Heaven  will  have 
The  soft  red  rim  of  your  lips. 

I  hear  your  voice  sing  low. 

The  world  is  fading,  dying; 

Only  you  and  I  still  live, 

A  flame  in  the  sunless  void 

May  the  end  never  be! 


52  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


FACULTY-PARADE 

Tossing  cap-  tassel :  crest  of  owls, 
Black  gown  and  hood :  livery  of  crows, 
Lip-laugh  and  word-trill:  chatter  of  magpies... 

Purple  damask, 

Crimson  satin, 

Amethyst  velvet, 

Silvery  plush, — 

(For  cape  and  cowl  and  gaping  sleeve) 

Glorious  raiment, 

All  too  beautiful 

For  magpies, 

Crows 

And  owls 


FAREWELL 

(To  D .) 

J  have  placed  you 

In  the  hollow  of  my  hand 

Little  toy-woman, 

And  I  gaze  at  you  disdainfully 

Or  throw  you  lightly  aside. 

Or  half-shut  my  eyes, 
And  poetize  dreamily 

About  your  dainty  beauty 

Or  put  my  mouth 

Close  to  yours 

So  that  I  see  only 

The  rose-red  of  your  cheek 

And  feel  the  soft  warmth 

Of  your  lips. 

Or  whisper  half-audibly 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  53 


Of  the  passion  that  makes 
My  blood  a  tide  of  fire...... 

But  after  all, 

You  are  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand,— 

I  the  master, 

And  you  the  marionette..... 

*     *     * 

My  soul  craves 
A  nobler  happiness 
Than  passionate  kisses 
And  the  feel  of  soft  flesh 
In  my  fingers...... 

*     *     * 

Love  is  a  lie.... 
Any  man-animal 
Whose  lips 
Are  at  your  throat, 
Whose  hands  are  eager 
For  your  breasts 
Will  drivel  with  lying  tongue 
About  endless  love..... 
*     *     * 

Aristocrats  or  gum-chewers, 

They  purr,  and  smirk,  and  sing-song 

questionmgly, 

Gaze  at  each  other  obliquely, 
Body  to  body  pressed — 

*     *     * 

It  is  best  to  live  alone, 
Breathe  alone, 
Dream  alone, 

Alone  with  one's  sacred  self, 
One's  reveries, 
And  memories, 
And  heavenly  fantasies — 


54  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


Here  I  sit  and  think : 
The  world  of  women 
Will  fret  me  no  more; 
And  an  hour  from  now, 
Or  to-morrow,  it  may  be, 
I  will  be  talking  to  another 
Pretty  one 

And  every  nerve  in  my  body 
Will  exult  as  though 
Inebriate  with  wine. — 

Morbleu !  What  is  this 
Insanity  of  man's  flesh! 


LUX  IN  TENEBRIS 

It  was  night. 
Clouds, — 

A  fleet  of  soft  white  snow-drift  clouds 
Sailed  by 

On  a  blue-black  sea; 
And  here  and  there, 
From  the  depths  of  this  sea, 
A  star  flashed  forth 

With  its  spear  of  light 

And  when  the  clouds  sailed  close 
They  spread  a  veil  across  the  moon 
Till  its  silver  shone 

Like  an  opal-tinted  aureole. 

Then  grew  my  heart  all  glad, 
For  never  had  I  seen 
Such  a  silver  moon, 
And  such  bright  star-light, 
And  such  snow-drift  clouds 
Asail  on  a  blue-black  sky.     .     .     . 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  55 


STUDY  IN  REVERSION 


I  know  a  human  owl. 

Gray-white  beard  coming  to  a  point;  spectacles 
like  an  owl's  eyes ;  a  short  fat  body. 

Looks  most  like  an  owl  when  he  sits.    And  he 
sits  almost  all  the  time.  In  the  Library.  I  have  never 
seen  a  man  able  to  sit  so  much,  and  so  long. 
How  he  does  it?    He  is  heavily-cushioned, — below 

Well,  this  owl  is  hooting  for  war. 

Think  of  it:  himself  incapable  of  moving  faster 

than  a  waddling  duck as  sure  of  his  old  hide  as  a 

superannuated  porker, — this  creature  hoots  and  grunts 
and  screeches  for  slaughter  and  bloodshed. 

From  his  perch  in  the  Library. 
Where  he  sits. 
And  sits. 
And  sits. 


56  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


GEORGES  LEWYS 

/.       Burgundy 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  57 


BURGUNDY 


Siege ! 

Krupps  roaring,  belching  death — 

Flanders — Burgundy — sucking,  feeding  on  bloodshed ; 

Manhood's  breath 

red, 

like  blood-fed 

Burgundy,  wed 

to  murdered  Liege 

Further  siege! — 

Turmoil 

Burgundy's  soil 

saturated, 

with  bubbling  gore, 

and  craving  more 


Luscious  grapes, 

(Little  child-shapes) 

Rich  ripe  swelling  grapes,  from  the  vine, 

Sent  to  the  harvest,  for  wine, 

To  crash  down  the  throats 

of  maddened  throngs — 

Then  songs 

And  more  rich  red  wine — a  crimson  sea,- 

Laughter — cries — the  twitch  of 

sodden  throats — mad  jubilee! — 

Women  carmine-lipped — white — 

bosomed  men — tongues  set  free 

In  amorous  jest  and  ribaldry 

On  streaming  blood-red  Burgundy. 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


MARJORIE  MUIR 

/.       A  N&w  England  Town — At  Noon 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  59 


A  NEW-ENGLAND  TOWN— AT  NOON 


I  walked  thru  an  old  New  England  town, 

Past  the  white  houses,  stiff  in  their  array, 

The  front  doors  closed,  the  windows  tightly  shut, 

Keeping  the  strong  noon  sun  from  peering  in. 

Flowers,  tall,  graceful,  bright-eyed  things 

Grew  hidden  in  yards  where  children  never  played; 

Past  an  old  grave-yard  crammed  with  ugly  ruins 

Of  slabs  and  crude  stone  seraphim ; 

Past  a  closed  school-house — it  was  summer  then, 

Vacation  time,  but  strange  to  see 

The  streets  were  free  of  noise  and  play. 

Over  the  town  there  hung  a  solemn  hush 

As  tho  the  villagers  had  gone  to  bed 

To  await  the  end,  when  all  had  been  decayed. 

Something  had  killed  the  love  of  life,  of  youth. 

The  town  was  senile,  filled  with  lifeless  forms 

Only  the  clock  on  the  church-top  lived — 

And  that  was  turning  round  and  round, 

Without  purpose  or  will  to  stop  itself. 


60  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


EDWARD  NAGLE 

/       The  Orange  Room 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  61 


THE  ORANGE  ROOM 


Deep  within 

The  Orange  room, 

On  a  shelf  of  alabaster, 

Twin  sprays  of  Narcissi 

Raise  their  heads 

From  out  a  green  jade  bowl, 

Wonder-eyed, 

Exhuming  a  putrescent  fragrance 

Death  commingled 

With  perfumed  flesh 

From  the  silence 
Without  the  Orange  room 
Lustful  cats 
Wail  harshly. 


62  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


RUTH  CLAY  PRICE 


/.  Fields 
II.  Anticipation 

III.  Strophe 

IV.  Eyes 
V.  Dearest 

VI.  Tramplers 

VII.  Impressions 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


FIELDS 


I  am  sister  of  the  virgin  field, 
Knowing  the  unbroken  earth. 

I  am  sister  of  the  fallow  field, 
Sheathing  the  blade  of  the  plough. 

I  am  sister  of  the  fertile  field, 
Sensing  the  swelling  seed. 

I  am  sister  of  the  fruitful  field, 
Rearing  the  tawny  grain. 


ANTICIPATION 


Pine  tree: 

Sun  still, 

Blurring  the  hill ; 

Thin  growing, 
Wind  blowing, 
Scent  sowing ; 

Fulfill ! 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


STROPHE 


Priest   and   Priestess 
At  the  altar 
Hymeneal, 
Make  of  our  love 
An  altar  fire 
Perpetual ; 

With  imagination 
Tend  the  flame 
Immortal : 

All  lovers  are  given 
A  religious  moment 
Temporal ; 

Only  a  few 
The  exaltation 
Eternal. 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  65 


EYES 


Seen  from  the  balcony,  looking  down : — 
At  tables  around  the  dancing  floor 
The  midnight  crowd  is  watching 
The  stupid  cabaret. 

Applause. 

Glasses  clink. 

Louder  the  music  sounds. 

A  dancing  f 

beautiful  is 

girl 

Flower —  face. 

like  painted 

her 

Cigarette  smoke  dims  the  room. 

Men  and  women  seem  but  eyes  agleam, 

Eyes,  glancing  at 

The  dancing. 

girl  is 

who 

Passionate  thought  eyes, 

Leering,  jeering! 

sneering, 

A  circle  of  concupiscent  eyes 
Aglitter  through  the  smoke. 


66  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


DEAREST 


Dearest,  hark  to  the  song  of  the  bird — 

Now,  no  longer  heard : 

As  the  song  is  lost  in  the  blue, 

I  am  lost  in  you. 

Dearest,  sense  the  land's  perfume — 
Fragrant  leaf  and  bloom : 
As  the  fragrance  is  lost  in  the  sea, 
You  are  lost  in  me. 


TRAMPLERS 

Elephants 

trampling  the  jungle: 
Monkeys, 
aloft, 

jabbering  frantically; 
the  boldest 

hurling 

ineffectual  cocoanuts. 
Events 

trampling  the  world : 
individualists, 
aloof, 

jabbering  frantically; 
the  boldest 

hurling 

ineffectual  protests. 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  67 


IMPRESSIONS 


The  virent  salt-marsh  tide  is  high  to-night, 

Rippling,  swishing  through  the  reeds, 

The  plashy,  marshy  weedsy 

That  flash  of  white,  a  homing  gull  in  flight; 

Some  call  it  heeds ; 
Hush! 

Trembling,  the  light  recedes,  the  colors  die, 

The  sky  is  gray,  the  shadow  of  night 

Falls  black  on  the  water's  light. 

The  heavens  deepen  with  stars,  the  wind  glides  by, 

Night  seems  to  sigh, 
Hush! 

Through  space,  from  purple  sky,  the  starlight  falls 

On  pungent,  lisping  waves  and  grasses ; 

Night's  magnetism  passes 

Through  the  marsh :  a  distant  sea-bird  calls, 

The  white  mist  crawls. 

Hush, 

Sh! 


68  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


HELENE  THURSTON 

/.  Sacrifice 
II.  Fear 
III.  Moonrise 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  69 


SACRIFICE 


Oh  Mother  Mary  mild, 
Thou  gavest  him  to  me, 
A  little  child. 

His  lips  against  my  breast, 
His  body  next  my  heart 
That  loved  him  best. 

So  short  a  time,  Oh  God ! 

The  days  slipped  swiftly  past ; 

The  years  were  trod, 

And  straight  and  strong  and  fair 

He  marched  away, 

And  left  me  there 

To  watch  and  wait  and  pray, 

While  night  piled  up  on  night 

And  day  on  day. 

And  then  they  brought  him  home 

To  me,  so  white,  so  still ; 

And  I  alone 

Bend  over  him  and  see 

The  promised  youth  snuffed  out ; 

And  tenderly 

Hold  close  his  fair  young  head. 

How  can  they  prate  of  peace 

When  he  is  dead? 


70  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


FEAR 

Do  you  see  the  gray  mists  twisting 

Over  the  hill,  Oh  mother  mine?  .... 

As  if  in  dumb  pain,  resisting 

The  elements  that  seek  to  bind  them  to  the  line 

Of  dark  hills  yonder 

Rising  to  shut  the  world  from  view, — 

The  world  and  all  its  wonder 

From  the  great  and  new  .  .  . 

Do  you  see  the  gray  mists  curling 

Like  the  sea,  Oh  mother  mine,  .... 

As  the  wind  comes  whirling 

To  the  great  waves  swirling 

Over  rockbound  gray-brown  coastline    .  .  .  .? 

Do  you  hear  the  ceaseless  beating, 

Mother,  as  the  mists  surge  overhead 

As  if  strange  music  still  repeating, 

Weird  music  like  lorn  dirges  o'er  the  dead  .  .  .  .  ? 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  71 


MOONRISE 


The  cool  and  trailing  garments  of  the  dusk 
Have  dimmed  the  flaming  ribbons  of  the  sun. 
From  a  walled  garden  comes  the  scent  of  musk. — 
Beyond  the  darkening  shadows  of  the  trees 
The  black  garbed  mountains  guard  their  mysteries. 
The  night-wind  whispers  secrets  of  a  tryst 

The  moon  must  keep  with  the  enchanted  world 
That  waits — enwrapped  in  clouds  of  purple  mist — 
Impatiently  the  hour  when  radiant  light 
Shall  pierce  the  thralling  curtain  of  the  night. 

At  last  a  faint  far  lustre  tips  the  mountain's  crest, 
And  drenches  all  the  trees  with  silver  rain. 
The  Goddess  of  the  moon,  in  glittering  garments 

dressed, 

Comes  forth  like  some  fair  eastern  temple  maid; — 
The  incense  of  her  draperies  fills  the  glade, 

A  filmy  band  of  mist  across  her  breast — 
The  fringes  of  her  robe  are  caught  with  stars, — 
And  shyly,  as  if  heeding  earth's  behest, 
The  edges  of  her  veil  are  gently  curled — 
Her  face  smiles  down  upon  the  waiting  world. 


72  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


WINIFRED  WALDRON 


I.  Three  Wash-Drawings 
II.  The  Garbage  Man 

III.  "Know  Thyself 

IV.  Hokku 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  73 


THREE  WASH  DRAWINGS 

I. 
Pelicans 

Three  white-breasted  pelicans 

Under  the  thin  white  moon, 

They  flap  and  sail 

And  sail  and  wheel 

Under  the  thin  white  moon. 

II. 
Surf 

Wild  white  legions  of  foam! 
Ever  running  and  racing  and  dying, 
Legion  following  legion — 
Ever  the  living  pursuing  the  dying. 

III. 

Hound  of  the  Sea 

The  Wind  is  the  great  white  hound  of  the  sea, 
The  Wind  goes  baying  through  the  cories  of  the 

waves, 
Leaping  at  the  running  mountain-tops  of  foam! 


74  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


THE  GARBAGE  MAN 


Our  smiling  garbage  man 

Takes  refuse,  papers,  useless  things; 

He  gives  a  "Yes  Ma'm,  Thank  you  Ma'm 

For  all  your  garbage !" 

Strange — at  times  we  give  the  best — 

And  then, 

But  what  of  that? 

Our  garbage  man  will  call  again : 

I  shall  give  the  garbage,  and  receive  a  hearty 

"Yes  Ma'm,  Thank  you  Ma'm!" 


"KNOW  THYSELF" 


My  brothers  chitter  and  squeak, 
Run  up  cold  bars  and  make  faces, 
Hang  by  their  tails  from  greasy  sticks, 
Twitter  and  squabble  and  grab  after  peanuts, 
Handf uls  of  peanuts  held  out  by  some  careless  fate ; 
Always  peanuts  !    The  senseless  crackle  of  shells ! 
Do  my  brothers  think  there  is  nothing  higher  in  Life 

than  peanuts? 

Only  I  sit  alone  in  a  corner,  and  improve  myself; 

All  day  I  pick  fleas, 

Cracking  them  thoughtfully  in  my  teeth. 

I  meditate  on  my  own  imperfections1 

My  mangy  skin,  my  nests  of  fleas, 

I  at  least  am  striving  after  Perfection. 

My  brothers !    Oh,  my  brothers ! 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  75 

HOKKU 

(Addressed  to  a  Bee) 


Bringer  of  pollen 

Tender  task  is  thy  love  flight 

Love  is  my  duty. 


PRELUDE 


Leaf-shadows  into  my  lap  came  sifting, 
Then  into  my  lap  the  leaves  came  drifting. 

Idly  I  gathered  these  gifts  of  the  tree, 

So  would  have  scattered  them,  wanderers  free: 

When  from  the  tree  came  the  laughter  of  strife, 
Lo — the  tree  was  the  Tree  of  Life ! 


76  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


ZELLA  MURIEL  WRIGHT 

/.  Delice 
II.  May  Moods 

III.  A  Song 

IV.  Songs  of  Creation 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  77 


DELICE 

It  stands  out  like  a  flower  of  pale  gold 

Among  all  my  drab  days, — 

That  night  we  two  ran  afield 

Through  the  alfalfa  and  sweet  clover  .... 

The  wind  blew  the  shirt  from  your  throat  and  chest 

And  I  marvelled  in  silence 

At  their  beautiful  strength  .... 

Then  we  stood  still ; 

You  pressed  your  lips  to  my  hair 

And  drew  my  head 

Close,  close  to  your  body 

Till  I  heard  the  mad  throb  of  your  heart 

And  the  riot  of  blood  in  your  veins  .... 

Among  my  colorless  drab  days 
There's  one  flower  of  pale  gold  .... 


78  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


MAY   MOODS 


(To  J.  H.) 

My  eyes  would  burn  you  up  with  scorn 

Were  it  not  for  a  tinge  of  pity 

Because  you  understand  so  little  .... 

With  unbounded  conceit 

You  come — 

Smiling — 

Thinking  you  are  doing  well  by  me. 

My  God ! 

I  have  given  you  my  life ! 

Do  you  think  to  repay  it  with  a  bauble? 


(To  J.  K.) 

You  are  like  all  the  others — 

"Will  she 

Or  will  she  not 

Give  me  her  body?" 

That  is  the  question 
That  teases  and  torments  you 
And  sends  you  reeling  forth 
Into  the  night, 
Singing  to  the  stars ; 
Or  striding  angrily  down  dusty  roads, 
Striking  off  the  heads 
Of  helpless  flowers 
With  your  cane. 

And  I  smile  at  your  agitation 
The  smile  you  call  inscrutable. 
I  smile  because  I  know 
Only  too  well 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  79 


That  sooner  or  later — sooner  or  later — 
Even  I, 

Knowing  the  pain 

And  the  cost  of  the  aftermath  of  love  .  .  . 
And  after  you  have  known 
The  full  strength  of  my  arms 
To  hold  you. 

After  you  have  felt  the  sting  and  fire  of  me, 
After  you  have  known  my  longest  kiss — 
A  kiss  which  almost  strangles — 

Instead  of  being  more  to  you 
I  shall  be  less 

And  you  will  go 

Because 

No  longer 

I  smile 

The  smile 

The  smile  you  call  inscrutable. 


A  SONG 


My  soul  is  full  of  poetry  to-day ; 
Even  the  grey  slush  is  beautiful, 
And  the  cars,  wet  with  mist, 
That  splash  thru  the  street. 
For  somewhere 
I  catch  the  scent  of  Spring. 


8o  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


To-morrow 

The  sun ! 

And  the  never-ending  road 

Stretching  before  me. 

You  may  starve  my  body 
And  clothe  it  in  rags; 
But  you  can  never 
Imprison  my  soul. 

Sometimes 

A  little  pain 

Catches  my  throat 

Because  the  happiness  of  settled  homes 

Cannot  be  mine. 

Here — or  there — 

I  have  stopped  by  the  roadside 

And  found  joy  for  a  time — 

But  not  for  long. 

For  me 

It  is  eternal  vagabondage. 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  81 


SONGS  OF  CREATION 


Printemps: 


It  is  Spring ! 

The  tense  earth  waits 

For  the  impregnating  seed ; 

The  trees  droop,  caressing  the  earth ; 

The  plowed  fields  drink  up  the  rain 

With  a  sucking  sound. 

The  earth  yearns  for  the  impregnating  seed; 

To  feel  it  draw  the  nourishment 

Stored  in  her  veins; 

To  feel  new  life 

Stirring  within  her  womb. 

I  have  builded  a  house  on  the  hillside 

And  the  tang  of  the  fresh-sawn  pine 

Is  still  in  the  air; 

The  fireplace  is  of  lichened,  igneous  rock, 

And  the  couch  is  made 

Of  the  fragrant  twig  of  the  spruce. 

It  is  Spring 

And  I  have  gone  away  from  the  abode  of  men 

That  I  might  hear  the  song  of  the  earth. 

All  night  I  lay 

With  my  ear  pressed  close  to  the  ground 

To  catch  the  song. 

The  quiet  moon  climbed  up  across  the  sky 

And  glided  behind  a  covert  of  young  pines 

Beyond  the  cabin; 

The  song  of  the  frog  calling  his  mate 

Came  up  from  the  glen  below ; 

But  the  tense  earth  moves  not 

And  is  silent 


82 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


For  her  veins  are  bursting 
With  the  desire  for  fruitfulness. 

The  birds  will  not  sing  tonight  • 

Even  the  trees  will  not  whisper  their  secret 

I  need  the  note  of  the  violin 

To  fill  in  the  silence. 

You  must  come  with  your  violin 

Uke  thV!1 1*  S°ug  °f  PaSSi°n  and 
Like  the  hot  breath  of  a  lover, 

Like  his  trembling  touch, 
Your  notes  will  wake  the  earth 
And  set  her  heart  to  beating 
That  I  may  catch  the  rhythm  of  it 
For  my  song. 

You  will  not  mind  if  I  do  not  speak  to  you 

Come  silently. 

You  will  find  bread  and  a  wedge  of  cheese 

In  the  cupboard, 

And  a  crock  of  fresh  butter 

Under  the  rock  by  the  spring. 

At  dusk  you  will  come 

And  sit  in  the  doorway 

While  I  lie  upon  the  ground 

With  my  ear  pressed  close 

To  catch  the  song  of  the  All-Mother's  heart 


Et6: 


It  is  good  to  be  loved. 

A  man  waits  for  me 

Who  will  cover  my  body  with  kisses- 

He  will  bury  his  face  in  my  hair; 

He  will  weep  with  joy  at  the  touch  of  me 

It  is  good  to  be  loved. 

I  wait  for  you  in  the  dusk. 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


How  strange  you  seem  tonight! 

Your  eyes  glisten  with  a  burmshed  light, 

Like  the  eyes  of  a  serpent, 

Like  the  eyes  of  a  god. 

Wherever  your  eyes  are  turned  upon  r, 

My  flesh  burns 

As  ito  two  hot  coals  were  laid  upo: 


0-       take  your  eyes  from  me  ? 
Why  do  you  tremble  and  grow  so  pale, 
You  who  were  so  radiant  and  rigid 


drop  weakly  in  a  heap; 

weSs  Sadness; 
A  madne     tlat  gives  you  a  ten-fold  strength. 
For  a  second  I  shrink  with  fear, 
Lest  in  your  ferocity,  you  devour  me^ 
Then  I  laugh-my  whole  body  laughs; 

But  I  move  not. 

On  my  lips  there  is  a  faint  smile, 

Shall  I  tell  you  why  I  smile  i 

I  smile  because  I  am  happy  ; 
Because  this  instant  is  my  instant 
In  this  eternity  of  eternities 
Tonight  I  understand  that  life  is  not 
The  groping,  broken,  half-thing 
It  has  always  seemed. 


84  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


TRANSLATIONS 


EDNA  W.  UNDERWOOD 

/.  The  Painted  Vase 
II.  Idleness 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  85 

I. 
THE  PAINTED  VASE 

La  Rosalba  disdaining  for  a  day  his  paints  and 

brushes, 

Took  up  a  drop  of  gold. 
One  single  drop  of  gold ; 
With  it  he  drew  upon  the  flank  of  this  great  antique 

vase,  the  muses  nine. 
He   drew  well  their  floating  gowns,   their  merry 

scattered  locks, 

Their  out-stretched  hands  that  seek  each  other. 
Within  this  vase  of  antique  crystal,  nobly  lined,  I 

pour  liqueur  of  Dansig. 
The  nine  bright  muses  dance  faster.  They  dance 

round  and  round. 
They  dance  around  a  lake  on  which  the  leaves  of 

autumn  fall. 


II. 
IDLENESS 

My  head,  my  weary  head,  is  like  a  timid  bird  that 

folds  itself  from  cold  upon  your  breast. 
The  hour  is  gentle!  the  day  is  sweet  and  blue  and 

fine. 

Autumn  about  to  die  caresses  us. 
Na,  no — rise  not,  I  pray  you !  Remain  stretched  out 

like  this  on  the  divan. 

I  hold  your  soul  beneath  my  ear.   I  feel  its  life. 
Down  there —  down  there  through  that  wide  open 

window  the  church  of  the  Isle  of  Tombs  I  see, 

while — glittering — 
It  hangs,  a  pendant  'twixt  your  breasts. 


86  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


JOSEPH  KLING 

/.  The  Stilled  Voice 

II.  Strophe 

III.  Lines  on  the  Death  of  Moishe  Nadir 

IV.  Lines  on  Moishe  Nadir  Redivivus 
V.  Monody 

VI.  Winter  Rain 

VII.  Fragment 

VIII.  Motif 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  87 


THE  STILLED  VOICE 


The  fountain  in  my  garden, 

That  sobbed 

Like  a  sorrowing  soul 

Unendingly, 

Died  to-night, 

And  is  still  .... 

And  the  mad  wind 

That  flouted  her 

And  tore  her  tinted  veil, 

Now  mingles  his  sighing  whisper 

With  the  silence  of  her  tomb. 

In  other  days 
The  ceaseless  falling 
Of  her  tears 
Drop  by  drop 
Sounded  clear 
Through  the  trees, 

Now  the  water, 

Like  a  lake 

Of  voiceless  sobs, 

Lies  dead  and  still  .... 

Yet  her  sorrow  is  not  dead: 

Hush! 

Methinks  I  hear 

The  last  faint  echo 

Of  a  moan.  .  .  . 


88  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


CONFESSION 

Love, 

I  have  sung  high  masses  to  you 

Unbelievingly, 

Like  a  wicked  priest, — 

Richly  robed, — 

Raising  the  jewelled  ostensory 

Of  my  verse 

To  the  wondering  gaze 

Of  distant  multitudes, 

Swinging  the  golden  censer 

Of  my  strophes 

Till  their  incense 

Left  my  soul 

Inebriate  . 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  89 


MONODY 

She  is  playing  .... 
Her  white  lily-fingers 
Seek  the  keys  in  the  dark, 
Longingly  stray  and  seek 
In  the  dark  ,  ,  , 

And  my  little  ones  are  weeping  .... 

I  dressed  them  in  little  white  shirts, 

And  put  them  to  bed, 

And  extinguished  the  lamp  .... 

Made  fast  the  door, 

Paused  a  long  moment  clutching  the  key, 

Then  hastened,  hastened,  here  .... 

Here  she  plays 

With  her  fingers  lily-white 

Straying,  seeking, 

Longingly 

In  the  dark 

And  my  children, 

My  sleepy  shirt-clad  little  ones 

Are  weeping, 

I'm  the  dark  . 


WINTER  RAIN 

Gray  and  old,  gray  and  pale, 
Bent  and  wet, 
He  totters  along 
Groping  about, 
Swaying  in  the  wind, 
Sobbing,  weeping,  over  our  sins. 


90  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MOISHE  NADIR 

Composed  by  His  Very  Self 

To  the  memory  of  Moishe  Nadir, 

Once  among  the  living, 

And  neatly  combed; 

Who  did  spend  two  or  three  hours  daily 

On  the  perfect  knotting  of  his  cravat, 

And  who  loved  his  every  finger  nail; 

Loved,  and  esteemed,  and  protected 

His  precious  self 

From  approaching  locomotives 

And  chilling  draughts.  ...  „' 

Now  he  lies  cold, 

And   uncombed, 

And  without  a  cravat.  .  .  . 

And  I, 

With  a  smile, 

And  a  bow  of  reverence, 

Place  here  at  his  feet 

A  wreath  of  verse.  , 


PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY  91 


LINES   ON   MOISHE  NADIR— JREDIVIVUS 


Halleluja! 

I  sing  to  you  my  beloved  friend, 

Moishe  Nadir  .... 

So  sad  it  was, 

So  very  sad, 

The  thought  that  you  are  dead, 

Without  a  soul, 

And  a  cravat, 

And  all  sinful  desires  .  .  . 

And  now, 
Oh,  how  I  rejoice 

That  you  are  thoroughly  alive  again, 
And  blithe, 
And  youthful, 
And  popular  with  the  ladies, 
And  a  brilliant  after-dinner  speaker 

And  how  sweet  it  was 
Of  your  handsome  father 
And  charming  mother 
To  marry  each  other 
That  they  might  bear  you, 
Their  adored  son, 
Their  prodigy  .... 

Halleluja! 


92  PAGAN    ANTHOLOGY 


FRAGMENT 


The  candle's  tallow 

Drips  and  drips 

Till  the  flickering  flame  expires, 

So  the  flame  of  my  soul 

In  the  Prayer-House  wanes, 

Till  like  the  candle  anon 

It  will  faint  and  expire. 


MOTIF 


On  the  garret  sleeps  the  roof 
Covered  snug  with  shingles  small, 
But  naked  lies  my  little  babe 
In  its  crib  by  the  mold'ring  wall. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


LIBRARY  USE 

NOV  1  5  1957 

HOV    1  1988 

11  \J   w 

AUTGDi$G.ggOl  '88 

General  Library 
LD  21A—  50m-8,'57                                University  of  California 
(C8481slO)476B                                                Berkeley 

<YC  1 08065 


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